


Pinhole

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-14
Packaged: 2017-12-14 23:08:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/842432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd spent the morning with his head in his hands, sniffing back apologies for the fucked up brother he'd become. It was admittedly funny. She didn't want to tell him that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinhole

The bathroom was yellow, with the shower curtain pushed out of frame and bunched up into its neighboring towel rack. Two sticky-soled feet hung close to the camera-- slightly knotted, yet attractive enough to conclude the pretty taper of her legs-- as Rose nested herself down into the empty tub. She waited for him to adjust the angle of the shot. It was a shoddy makeshift sort of thing, black and large and cubic, but he swore it would work because he'd processed those types of photos before. "Pinhole," he said, when she'd asked what it was called. Now that she got a better look at it, she had plenty of doubts. _That_ was not a camera, in the way that Dave was not an artist-- not _really_. He liked to call himself that, but with as many rules and tutorials as his hobbies demanded, he might as well be closer to Mendeleev than Matisse.  

Still, she humored him, though in ways that sometimes stretched the definition of "comedy". It was one thing to drop an ice cube down the back of his shirt, or to anonymously order him a Cosmo instead of his usual Gentleman Jack during business deals. It was appropriate to one-up his attempts at "indie" and "aloof" with ravish rococo decorating and a falsified palate for Indian food, which she hated more than all the shitty underground music he played when he worked.  

It was not funny (in any attempt at forced irony or not) to keep him up late at night with the scent of her Pall Malls on his pillowcase, or with her hanging sheets of bangs that'd grown a bit too long since summer brushing against his forehead. It was not funny to keep him stiff-legged as she perched herself against him on the couch, with slow movements and friendly intentions that promised him an innocent _one, two, ten_ _minutes_ until he got up to "get some air".  

It was not _hilarious_ to agree to act as his model, while he fiddled with photo-sensitive materials and told her to take her shirt off. She did as she was instructed, not because he was an _artist_ , but because a hungry sort of curiosity liked to fizz up in her stomach whenever he used her to "experiment". It started simply, portraits and badly-developed pictures of hands and ankles, but hung-over mornings spent smoking on the patio led to "what-if"s and "would you do it"s. She'd agreed to pose nude, and he'd called her scandalous. She'd called him sick.  

She'd smiled and poured him chocolate milk to make up for the comment, which ultimately went to his head. He'd spent the morning with his head in his hands, sniffing back apologies for the fucked up brother he'd become. It was admittedly funny. She didn't want to tell him that. 

So now, as she sank her naked body into the tub, she waited for him to uncover the lens of the homemade camera and join her. He gave one last pleading look, as if _she_ was the one who'd suggested the entire situation, before she shrugged and he unzipped his jeans. He worked quickly, because he'd said that the time-lapsed exposure would record every movement and muss up the image. Rose felt his bare forearms against hers as he situated himself, equally as hot and unmoving, until he gave her the okay. "Five minutes in this lighting," he muttered, and his voice was much too sure of itself. His narrow chest was visibly beating.  

They faced forward, posing for what Rose considered a very weak satire of _American Gothic_ , and she hiccuped. Dave didn't say anything in the hopes of keeping the photo as still and clean as possible, but she hiccuped again, breaking her face. She laughed. 

"You know we're going to have to do this again," he said, after a minute of her involuntary movement. He didn't sound upset. "Shit's gonna be blurry."  

She nodded. "Yeah, my-- HIC-- bad."  

He stared straight ahead for all of four seconds before cracking a grin. He chuckled, throwing his head forward against his bent knees in futile defeat. Their hands were spread flat against the bottom of the tub, barely touching pinkie to pinkie, until he wrapped his fingers around hers and held on through his laughter. His sunglasses began to slip from his face, and she pushed them back up with her spare hand, letting it wander down to his midsection and palm over his stomach. It was soft. No, Dave was _definitely_ not an artist, Rose mused. He was too well-fed. 

They sat, touching each other without trepidation, as they smiled and whispered and rubbed and groaned. Many thoughts crossed her mind, but she counted her hiccups and forgot about words like "societal norms" and "piety". He pressed into her, and reminded her to tell him off for over-exposing the photo. Afterwards, he meant. 

After this. 


End file.
